Of Noble Birth
by Eve Hawke
Summary: In the early winter of 9:05, Fiona and Maric shared a night in the Deep Roads that left them both with more than just satisfaction. Maric misses the strong-willed elf who captured his heart, and Fiona... has quite a surprise for him. The decision they must come to is by no means easy, but will shape the future of Ferelden. Aligns with the Lyraverse and follows my own canon. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The mage loosened the cloak that draped her neck, the cool night breezes a welcome relief from the warmth of the day. A kind moon shone down as she trudged the weary path, the man who walked beside her as silent as the celestial orb. The shuffling of their footsteps overlapped the music of crickets, sultry and romantic in the heat of deep summer.

A now familiar pain blossomed in her abdomen, and the mage slowed, a deep breath catching in her throat. Her agile hands tangled in the fabric of her skirt, a groan breaking the stillness of the evening as she stumbled to a halt.

"Fiona," the man said in a low voice. His gloved hand touched upon the small of her back, offering gentle support. "You're not due for a few weeks yet."

"Tell that to this kid," she managed, stifling the whimper that begged release. The pains had begun early that morning, but she had no desire to birth her child in the woods - she would reach the palace, or die trying. Now the contractions were coming more frequently, and soon she would be unable to walk at all. "Come on, Baltan. I can make it, if you help me."

Without another word the man held out a willing arm, and Fiona clutched it with tense fingers. Her breathing relaxed as the tightness eased within her belly, lips pursing as she shut her eyes in concentration. There was no more talk, and within the hour, they crossed through Denerim's gates.

.oOo.

Maric shoved the stack of papers aside, his head aching in the candlelight. Tired fingers rose to rub circles over eyes gone bleary with strain. Arl Eamon had arrived for a three-week visit, and the niceties that went with hosting, coupled with Loghain's ever-increasing list of demands, had his head spinning.

He'd been trying. Really, he had. And things had improved - Ferelden rallied to what was being hailed by some as "the king's return". Since Rowan's death, he'd been distracted, unhappy, uninterested in his royal responsibilities. His only son was nothing if not a sad reminder of the wife and mother who'd been lost, though since he'd returned from the Deep Roads he'd appreciated the boy more than ever. Cailan was a living tribute to Rowan, with her golden hair and blue eyes. But at six years old, the boy had begun to develop enough of his own personality that Maric could see past the image of his late wife. Nothing pleased the child more than spending time with his father, and Maric loved him a bit more every day.

Though he'd gone into the Roads expecting to die, and perhaps even hoping for it... coming out again in one piece had ensured he appreciated what he had.

Maric pushed back from the desk, stretching as he rose from the carven chair. Making his way to the door, he laid an ear against it, listening for noises from the household. When he was up so late, he could usually count on not being disturbed, but it was always worth a bit of extra caution. All was still, so he threw the bolt and hurried to the closet at the far end of the room. A brass key hung beneath his shirt on a chain, and Maric thumbed it before unlocking the closet door. It had been nearly two weeks since he'd found time to work on his painting, and now he could no longer stand to wait.

Moments later, he had everything assembled, the nearly-completed canvas perched upon a wooden easel, pots of paint ready for mixing and brushes lined up neatly in preparation. His fine shirt had been tossed upon the settee, and a spattered smock was buttoned into place to guard against splotches. Not even the servants knew of his pastime - if they had, doubtless the entire kingdom would know.

Maric had always loved to draw, and painting had become a natural extension of that. Scenery, mostly, things he remembered from his youth, fanciful dreams. One particularly fine piece had gone for auction in Denerim, drawing a noble crowd to the Wonders of Thedas shop. Watching the gentry battle for the prestige of owning "a poor starving artist's masterpiece" had tickled his fancy for months afterward. If he had his way, Denerim's Revered Mother would never know that her painting of the Black City had been done by none other than Ferelden's monarch.

His newest work, though - this wasn't a landscape. Rich mahogany eyes, the shoulder-length hair that curved around her slender face, the dimples that deepened her cheeks... Maric stared, cursing his failing memory, hoping he was getting her right. While it had been less than a year since he'd seen Fiona, it felt more like forever.

To be sure, none had imprinted upon his soul in quite the way she had. Even Rowan had been more like his best friend, their marriage a political thing meant to unite the country. And while his feelings for Katriel had certainly been intense, her betrayal and his reaction to it sullied the memory of her. Fiona, though... _"Stress," _Loghain's scowling words echoed in his head. _"After what you went through, it's no wonder you can't forget that elf. But forget her you should - she's no different than Katriel."_

The man couldn't have been more wrong. Which was why he would never know about this painting.

Maric pursed his lips as he peered at the canvas, searching for what needed doing next... her eyes. That was where it lacked depth. Her hair was right, he was certain of it - and her ears, peeking through the rich strands. The curve of her cheek - well, perhaps... he dabbed, adjusting, shading, murmuring to himself, losing track of time as the candles burned down.

When he'd finally finished enough to satisfy the driving urge that took him, Maric wiped his hands upon a rag, surveying his progress. Not bad, but not finished. And her eyes _still_weren't right. If only he could see her again... His memory played tricks on him, and though he'd been certain he would never forget her depthless gaze, it faded a bit more with each day that passed.

Moving the easel carefully so as not to disturb his work, he set the assembly within the closet once more, storing everything away until he could steal another few hours to himself. Usually he painted late at night, but even this was a risk with Eamon in the castle. How would the arl react, to see Maric painting a picture of a woman other than his sister? An _elven_woman, no less?

It didn't bear thinking about.

His supplies safely stowed, Maric drew his shirt back on, buttoning it before unlocking the door to his office. Though the hour was late, he wasn't sleepy yet... Making a snap decision, he hurried to his room and snatched up a cloak, tucking a dagger into his boot as he spiraled down the staircase to breeze past the guards standing watch at the entryway.

"Going for a walk, Ted," he called in passing.

A second pair of guards materialized from the shadows to intercept him, their bodies and weapons erecting an unmovable wall. Maric groaned. "Oh, come on," he complained. "Really? We're still doing this?"

"Teyrn Loghain's orders, sire," one of the guards replied in a steadfast voice. "The teyrn threatened us with disembowelment if you escape the castle."

"Well, we wouldn't want that now, would we," Maric drawled, then ground his teeth. This had been going on for months. Since he'd come back from the expedition with the Wardens, Loghain had locked him up tighter than a prized canary. No leaving the castle without an armed guard. No unsupervised walks, even in his own garden. No attending social functions without an escort. Privacy and trust were things of the past, it seemed.

Much as he'd have liked to throw his weight around or drag Loghain from his bed and have it out then and there, in the end it would do no good. Loghain was the Hero of River Dane; the commander of Ferelden's armies, the de facto leader of these men who gave their lives for crown and country. Maric was only the king - and a troublemaker, to boot. If it came to a pissing contest, there was no doubt who the victor would be - especially when it came to the soldiers.

Besides which, Maric could understand Loghain's edict... if _he'd_ had to corral an irresponsible king with a history of wanderlust, he'd probably take to locking the doors, too.

"Damn. Oh well, I suppose I might as well just go to bed," Maric said with a sad sigh, lowering his chin in defeat. "It _is_ late." The yawn was pushing things a bit, but Maric threw it in for good measure anyway before trudging back up the stairs, making a show of taking off his cloak and laying it over his arm.

"Sleep well, majesty," one guard called up after him.

Maric raised a lazy hand in response, not bothering to turn around.

Once he rounded the corner, Maric glanced around. Nothing here, no one there. Good.

It took mere seconds to duck into the proper hallway, and then he flew, keeping his steps as silent as possible in his well-worn boots. There was another exit; a bolt-hole only he knew of, constructed for emergencies so the royals could flee. Loghain would have had kittens if he'd suspected such a breach in security, which was part of what made it fun. Many were Castle Denerim's secrets... he'd have to be certain to teach Cailan all of them one day.

.oOo.

Being out of the palace calmed the restlessness in his soul. Maric felt easier once he was away from the castle, the tension bleeding from his shoulders as he gained distance from the standing stones. Denerim's nightlife was quiet, most of the rowdier citizens having taken themselves indoors for private parties or libations among friends. The king eased his hood up and over his face anyway, just in case.

The scorch of the summer's day had given way to the warmth of late evening, a cool breeze tugging playfully at the fabric that billowed near his ankles. Perhaps he'd leave Denerim altogether, wander the mild wilderness that crept up to touch the stone walls of his city. The woods didn't encroach for a few miles; there would be nothing to threaten a capable traveler, not if he kept his eyes open and his wits about him. At worst, he would encounter a cutpurse - one who would only be disappointed, for Maric had no pouch.

Yes, it was a fine plan. Just walk awhile, work some of the energy from his twitchy muscles.

Of course, it would take quite a chunk of luck to make it past the gate, but one obstacle at a time. No use giving up without at least trying.

A long stone walkway curved inward from both sides, funneling those who would exit the city down a narrowing path. The road was otherwise deserted, and Maric might have made a clean exit were it not for the two who entered the gate and shuffled toward him.

Well, not toward him, more like near him. He might have passed them by completely if one of the robed figures hadn't given a short cry and bent at the waist, his companion catching him before he crumpled to the ground.

"Is everything alright?" Maric hastened toward the pair, intent on offering aid.

The unhurt figure scooped his companion up into cradling arms, and then Maric noticed his mistake - the one who'd grunted in pain wasn't male but female, and quite roundly pregnant.

"She's in labor," the man said shortly. "Can you take us to an inn?"

"Of course." Maric beckoned, but then a weakened voice halted him in his tracks.

"Maric... fancy meeting you here."

Chills spread over him as the voice seeped back into his awareness. Maker's breath... he hadn't heard that voice in - he whirled, mouth falling open in shock as the very pregnant female shoved her hood from her face. His surprise couldn't have been greater if Andraste herself had been the one to speak his name.

"Fiona," he breathed.

.oOo.

It was a harried flight back to the palace. The very tunnel Maric had come through moments earlier served as their route; a non-descript door in the middle of the market leading to a moldering storage room. The king palmed a secret panel in the wall, which shifted away to reveal a long, sloping tunnel. Maric cursed his lack of a torch, and the man who carried Fiona muttered beneath his breath in response. A wisp of light appeared before them, dancing ahead to guide them through the darkness. Maric didn't stop to marvel at this, too focused on Fiona's plight to concern himself with banalities like how a mage had made a light. He'd offered to carry Fiona himself but was put off, and settled for leading the way as quickly as possible.

This particular tunnel opened into a small guest room. Fiona's eyes squeezed shut as another teeth-gritting wave took her, and her companion wasted no time in settling her gently upon the modest bed. The room _was_ small in comparison to most of the other guest suites, and now Maric recalled why; it was to keep this very tunnel safe. Tiny, out of the way, far from the center of castle activity - no self-respecting noble would want to be lodged in such a simplistic chamber, thus the tunnel was unlikely to be discovered.

"What can I do?" Maric asked, shrugging out of his cloak and tossing it over the dresser.

"Soft, clean fabric that you don't mind getting rid of after," Fiona's companion ordered in a brusque voice. "An old sheet, well-worn towels, that sort of thing."

"Yes," Maric nodded, a bit overwhelmed as he wondered where the maids might keep such things. He ended up raiding the laundry room, finding a cabinet filled with pieces of fabric in various sizes and shapes, softened by years of washing. A handy basket sat nearby, and Maric grabbed it to carry his find.

When he returned to the suite with the basket, Fiona had been stripped of the cloak and most of her clothing. Nothing but a light linen shift draped her body, loose and sleeveless. She knelt before the bed, head bowed as if in prayer, her body rocking as her fingers dug into the coverlet, white to the knuckles.

"Thank the Maker you've returned. How sound-proof is this room?" the nameless companion demanded as he snatched the basket from Maric's arms.

"As much as any other," Maric stammered, a bit taken aback. "It's somewhat isolated, but-"

The man gave a grand flourish, and a lavender flash of light melted over the walls. "Don't open that door. You'll disrupt the spell. We're clear, Fiona," he called to her.

An earthy, gut-wrenching cry rose from Fiona' throat in response, the agony in her voice tearing Maric's heart in two. Only once before had he heard that sound; when Rowan had birthed their son. But it had come from the _other_ side of a door much like this one... this was rather more close and personal than he was comfortable with. A clutch of clucking females had tended his wife during her time, and Maric's job had been to pace the hallway and cringe whenever Rowan screamed.

Realization settled over him - for all intents and purposes, the room was sealed, with Maric himself its prisoner. A wave of panic washed over him... he was trapped.

The mage lifted a time-softened sheet from the basket and shook it out, then doubled it twice and spread it upon the floor. A few towels followed, then he crossed to Fiona and laid gentle hands upon her back. The whole process took a minute or less, and Fiona's voice had risen and fallen once more as the seconds ticked by. Now she panted in labored breaths, her head drooping.

Maric watched, somewhat suspicious at this whole process. He'd assumed the linens were for... maybe wrapping, or cleaning the new child. But this looked like a nest built upon the floor. Whatever for?

The man crooned to Fiona, smoothing her hair from her face. "Here, dear. You can do it. With me, now." Caring hands urged her to stand, and Fiona gripped his arms, her face contorted as she fought to keep silent. "Maric," the mage ordered as they shuffled over. "Kneel there." With his chin, he indicated the edge of the nest that had been created of old towels and blankets. "You'll have to hold her."

"Me? No," Maric shook his head as he backed up a pace. "I - I have no - I've never -"

"Shut up," Fiona rasped, her eyes opening to pin him with a murderous stare. "Do as - Baltan says-" Her eyes screwed shut again as another contraction threatened to sunder her in two.

Maric hastened to obey, the desperation in Fiona's expression quickening his movements. The mage - Baltan - guided Fiona into a squat, her back leaning against Maric and her hands latching onto his thighs for balance.

"Hold her," Baltan instructed again. "...here." Reaching for Maric's hands, he threaded them beneath Fiona's arms to nestle around her burgeoning belly. "Just support her," he finished as he rolled up his sleeves. "You keep her upright. We'll do the rest."

Maric nodded, his mouth gone dry with apprehension. "Why am I holding her again?" he croaked.

"This is the best position for birthing," Baltan replied in a brisk voice. "This stance allows her hips to open as needed. She's close. Gravity helps, and her body can take care of the rest."

"I swear to Andraste's fucking undergarments I will _end you both if you don't shut up!"_

Baltan's eyes shone with humor, but he said nothing more, and Maric took his cue from the mage.

Fiona's head lolled against his chest, sweat beading on her forehead. Intense concentration puckered her brow, and Maric felt her entire body clench in preparation for another contraction. Maric found himself tensing with her, anxiety tightening his jaw.

"Breathe through it, Fiona," Baltan urged. "Just as we discussed. Don't fear this. Move with it, pass through it. You're a strong woman, powerful; this is nothing you can't do..." the mage continued to speak low encouragement, his lilting voice soothing to Maric as well. Starkhaven, perhaps? There was a musical intonation to his words. The man knew his trade, that was certain, though Maric hadn't been aware there were _male_ midwives.

"You're a healer?" Maric asked during a short lull.

"Aye," Baltan replied, his eyes on Fiona.

"Can't you... um, can you do anything for her?" Maric stroked one hand over Fiona's arm, his heart twisting at the way she quivered with exhaustion and discomfort.

Baltan shook his head, his calm expression unchanging, his voice quiet. "Something blocks my magic. She's doing this without magical aid, and anyway she needs it not." Fiona gave a weak chuckle at this last bit, and Baltan's hand found hers.

Minutes passed, Fiona's control wavering in and out as she approached the moment of birth. Maric felt every pain with her, her fingernails driving straight into his legs as she bore down. Without a doubt, he'd be bruised for a week... such strength from such a tiny female! It began the same way each time; Fiona would hunch in his arms, her muscles trembling with pressure for a long breath before she went limp in his embrace. Each contraction had its high and low, and Maric fell into the rhythm of it, bound up in the miracle unfolding before his eyes.

This woman... this fierce, wonderful woman. Oh, how he'd missed her. Their connection hadn't had much of a foundation or chance to grow, but she'd been branded upon his heart, always hovering at the back of his mind. Ferelden's winter had been in its infancy when they'd met, their brief affair taking place mere weeks later in the Deep Roads. Snows had melted, the flowers of spring leading to the fruit of summer. Nearing nine months since then, and if she was here - in_ this _moment - it could only mean...

...this child was his.

Of course he'd known. The moment he saw her, he'd _known_. But now, adding the dates up in his head - there could be no other possibility. Why would she come here, unless he was the father?

Suddenly, there was nowhere else Maric wanted to be.

Fiona's head tipped back upon his shoulder, agony cramping her voice as she begged. "I can't... I can't, Baltan..."

"You _are_," he argued. "You're already doing it! Feel, Fiona... The babe is almost here. Don't give up now!"

Fiona whimpered, the sound wracked with desolation. "No... please, Baltan, please."

"You can do it," Maric whispered. His hand sought hers, and his lips grazed her temple. "I _believe_ in you..."

Fiona seemed not to hear him, but her fingers wound with his as she steeled herself once more. Whether it was Maric's encouragement or simply good timing, he would never know, but seconds later Baltan reached for another towel as Fiona's infant squalled his first.

"Well done," Baltan laughed, dark eyes shining with joy. "Fiona, it's a boy!"

"A boy," Fiona replied in a limp voice, sagging against Maric, their fingers squeezing. The king's eyes rounded, watching in amazement as Baltan cleaned the new baby with capable hands. Fiona's head rested upon Maric's shoulder, her fingers tightening with his as his other hand rose to sweep the hair from her face. Warmth tingled against his palm, Fiona's fingers sparkling. "My magic..." she murmured, sounding amazed. "Baltan, it's back."

"Careful, then," Baltan cautioned. "The body has specific processes it must go through after birth... lessen your discomfort if you must, but disrupt nothing. You came through with a fair amount of ease."

Fiona nodded, closing her eyes. Flickers of light danced over her body and her tension drained away, her eyes opening a moment later with a relieved smile. "It's been months since I could do that," she uttered with a laugh.

Maric hardly noticed, so focused was he on the tiny life in Baltan's hands. He loosed a stuttering breath as the babe was passed into Fiona's arms, the two of them sinking fully to the floor as Fiona cradled her son. A few quiet moments passed while Baltan dissolved the muting spell blanketing the room and tucked a bit more padding around Fiona... apparently, there _was_ blood involved in birth, though it seemed odd to him that it came _after_ the baby. Concern wrinkled Maric's brow, but Fiona seemed so relaxed now... was this normal, then? Baltan must have sensed his worry, for a reassuring smile lifted the corners of the man's mouth, once again easing Maric's fears. The king relaxed as well, holding Fiona as gently and surely as she held her baby, his heart overflowing with wonder.

"He'll want to nurse," Baltan instructed, then undid the buttons on Fiona's shift to allow access to her chest. Maric supported them both as the healer guided her hesitant hands, assisting her with this unfamiliar task. The baby was alert, his eyes open and staring as he latched, his mouth working furiously to gain his first nourishment. Fiona seemed nervous, but her confidence grew as the minutes passed and the baby did nothing but eat.

"He's amazing," Maric murmured in awe. "Look at him..." He reached a tentative hand out to cup the crown of his son's head. Dark hair beckoned his fingers, soft as satin. The boy's cheek was too tender to be real - had Cailan been this fragile? _Perhaps,_ he thought, remembering. _I was barely allowed near him..._ "He's just... look at him! Fiona, look at this. Look at_us_." A breathless laugh tumbled from Maric's throat, his arms tightening around her in adoration and pride. He hardly knew what to do, so filled with joy that any moment he might start spilling over.

"Maric... I have something to tell you," Fiona murmured.

"Hmm?"

"You're going to be a father," she whispered.

Maric's eyes brimmed as he pressed his lips to her temple in response.

An hour later, Fiona and the tiny boy had been tucked into bed, both happy to sleep after the exhaustion that being born entailed. Baltan followed him out into the hallway, and Maric trembled with his own fatigue as he closed the door, preparing to head to his own bed.

"You'll come back in the morning?" Baltan asked.

"Of course," Maric said. "I... there's so much I want to say and ask. But now probably isn't the time."

"I can tell you some," Baltan said. "But you look as though you might drop at any moment. I don't imagine you'd planned on assisting with a birth today."

"It wasn't on my agenda, no," Maric agreed. One hand raked through his tawny hair. "Of course, it's nothing compared to what Fiona's feeling, I imagine."

"She's tough, she'll be terrorizing me in a few days," Baltan chuckled. "Sleep, Your Majesty. Time for questions and answers in the morning. Fiona and I aren't going anywhere."

With this promise, Maric dragged himself to bed, his heart full and his mind overwhelmed. Without a doubt, one of the more dizzying evenings of his life. Thoughts whirled through his head, spinning themselves in circles like a Mabari chasing its tail, and to just as much purpose. Exhaustion threatened to topple him over, but he merely sank to the mattress, sitting for a moment before he prepared for bed and snuffed the candle. Morning would come too soon, but bleary eyes were nothing to the knowledge that Fiona was in the castle, that his son - _his son!_ - had been born this night. Nay... morning. He'd left the curtain open, and already the sky seemed less black, dawn creeping up by inches and centimeters. Perhaps two hours remained before sunrise. "Seventeenth Matrinalis," he whispered... the date would never be ordinary again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The baby's entire hand curled around her first finger, clenching tight. Fiona giggled at him, beyond delighted with her son. Her nose dipped inward to stroke his rounded cheek, so downy soft... nothing could be this sweet and be real. He sighed in his sleep, the sound contented and worry free.

They'd been doing this since sunrise, and Fiona didn't see any reason to stop.

Baltan had stretched himself across the other side of the bed, dead to the world. He'd made noises about sleeping on the floor, but Fiona had insisted he make use of the mattress. The bed was large enough for two, and it wasn't as if she and the baby took up much room. After all he'd done for them, the least she could do was see that he got a good night's sleep. This cozy room seemed like the perfect haven for the three of them, traveling for so many weeks and even months from the Anderfels.

To think, she'd nearly done away with this small wonder in her arms.

Idle fingers smoothed the hair on her son's head. It seemed like a lifetime since Baltan had discovered her in the stillroom, his calm interference bringing an end to her plans. Her mind wandered, distracted as she snuggled her son...

_It would be easy._

_A potion, a few murmured words. Pain, sure. What of it? Fiona shrugged as she dumped distilling agent into the miniature cauldron, heated from below with a bit of magical flame. The pain of this could be no worse than what she'd endured as a girl. No worse than any normal woman endured month to month - well, maybe a bit worse. But then it would be over, her slate wiped clean. This... _mistake_... would be rectified._

_"Deathroot and rashvine... Fiona, what are you doing?"_

_Baltan's voice made her jump. She whirled, glaring at her fellow mage. "This isn't your stillroom."_

_"No, but those _are_ my ingredients." The man chuckled as he wandered closer, one hand rising to smooth the moustache and goatee that circled __his mouth. "You aren't a potion maker, well-rounded as you are. What mischief are you concocting?"_

_"Nothing," she muttered. "Leave me be."_

_Baltan ignored her, strolling up to lean against the table. "We have the final results."_

_This snagged the girl's attention. Her head whipped toward him. "And?"_

_"And you're untainted."_

_Her fingers stopped shredding the leaves, the blood draining from her face. She'd suspected, but... "That's impossible."_

_"Believe what you will. We tested your blood. Your Warden signature is strong as ever, yet there's no trace of corruption within you. It's as if you've been distilled... purified." His eyes bored through her. "It's odd."_

_"Mmm." Fiona turned back to her cauldron. Her stomach flipped, nervousness speeding her pulse. She had an instinct about what might have dispersed the Taint that had nearly overcome her, and it drove her current course of action. "No clue why. Something to do you with you and your passenger, maybe?"_

_Baltan shrugged. "Compassion may have played a part. He sometimes does... he likes to step in when I'm healing. But Duncan remains the same, even after I applied the same techniques."_

_"He wasn't really harmed to begin with," Fiona pointed out as she tossed a handful of sticky rashvine into the simmering cauldron. "That knife he stole protected him from the brooches. They canceled each other out."_

_"But your recovery from this - aren't you curious? Even the least bit? Fiona, you might not go to a Calling." His eyes danced. "It's incredible, that chance. And _something_ caused this! If we can figure it out, it could mean no Warden will ever need go through that again. No more lost comrades." Baltan cocked a hip against the desk, ignoring the steaming liquid in the cauldron._

_Fiona held her breath as she continued her potion making. Perhaps he wouldn't notice what she was doing after all. The ingredients were telling - if he was paying attention. "It's great, I agree." Pulling the last plant from her pouch, she began tearing the leaves from the stems, discarding the purple flowers from each stalk._

_Baltan's lips pursed, his arms folding. "You're awfully casual about this."_

_Fiona snorted, her fingers busy. "Did you expect dancing?"_

_Without warning, Baltan's hand shot out, closing around her wrist. "Pennyroyal?"_

_Fiona said nothing, her heart in her throat. There was only one use for pennyroyal, and though she was hardly religious she sent up a quick prayer that the healer wouldn't know it._

_His eyes rippled lavender with the light of the Fade, though Compassion made no other appearance. A frown bent Baltan's mouth downward. "What happened in the Roads, Fiona?"_

_Scowling, she yanked her hand away. "Awfully personal," Fiona snipped, throwing the leaves into the cauldron. "Don't you have anything better to do than bother me? Isn't anyone dying who could use a healer right about now?"_

_"Fiona." There was no levity in his tone. "Duncan told me about you and King Maric."_

_An incredulous sound fell from her lips, eyes rolling with exasperation. "That little _shithead! _There's nothing to tell." Tiny bubbles breached the surface of the potion, signaling its near-readiness as an herbal smell filled the room, sharp and camphorous. "Go jump off a cliff."_

_"Which is Fiona for 'You're too close to knowing something I don't want you to know'." Baltan's next words froze her in place. "You're pregnant, aren't you."_

_Fiona clenched her jaw, willing herself not to react. "No."_

_"You are." Baltan gestured to the cauldron. "Pennyroyal? Deathroot? I've been healing people since you were in swaddling, child. I would know what you were doing by the scent alone." Baltan waved a gentle hand over the cauldron, the only evidence of his magic a faint violet swirl. The flames flickered and died, her potion freezing to a hard glitter._

_Fiona scowled, fists clenching as she watched her careful preparations possibly ruined._

_Baltan's voice gentled as he spoke again. "Miscarriage is a messy business, my dear. Dangerous... you could die of it. You don't want this."_

_"Don't tell me what I want," Fiona cried, her composure crumbling. "It wasn't supposed to happen - he's human,_ _I'm an elf! He's a hero, a king - I'm an apostate and a Warden! I can't... I can't care for a child..."_

_In an instant, the elder mage's arms were around her, her head cradled in the hollow of his neck as she sobbed her hurt and fear. Such comfort radiated from his strong arms... it was what Baltan was known for. The talented spirit healer had earned the attention of a Fade denizen who called himself Compassion. A more apt name couldn't exist._

_Her tears dried a moment later, some of the ache lifted from her heart, soothed by Baltan and his otherworldly partner. The spirit twinkled at her before fading from sight, leaving the man to himself once more. It was an unusual association the two had struck up, but like the other Wardens, Fiona didn't question. Baltan was one of the most powerful mages the Wardens had. While his oddity might have caused him difficulty elsewhere, in Weisshaupt anything that strengthened the Order was welcomed._

_"May I?" Baltan flicked a questioning glance at her midsection._

_Fiona hesitated, then nodded, lacing her fingers behind her neck to allow him room._

_The healer knelt, eyes closing as his hands hovered a few inches from her waist. Silence surrounded them as Baltan concentrated, purple light shimmering over his fingers. Fiona had done much the same when she'd begun to suspect; all he was doing was confirming the pregnancy, observing the life that had begun within her._

_His eyes opened after another moment. "There is destiny in this child."_

_"Bullshit," she flared. "Now you're a seer, as well? It isn't even a child, not yet."_

_"Fiona-"_

_"And besides," she bit out. "What if the reason I'm... _purified_... is that the child is the one carrying the Taint now instead?" There it was, her fear laid upon the table. If the curse she'd taken on willingly had been given instead to another - an innocent - no. She couldn't live with that. "My mind is made up. Please, Baltan... respect that." Shouldering past him, she mouthed an incantation to melt the icy potion. In seconds it had been heated once more, the bitter scent wafting through the stillroom as simmering bubbles burst._

_"Don't do it, Fiona," he cautioned her. "Wardens don't normally have children after the Joining. Do you know how many would be envious? Don't squander what might be your only chance to be a mother. You've been granted a precious gift."_

_"One I can never keep," she snarled at him, weary of his persistence. "One I didn't want. One which will never bring anyone anything but misery!" Hot tears slid down her cheeks, her voice cracking with fury. Damn Maric! Damn him to the deepest pits of the void... Why had she allowed such a thing to happen? Why had she stopped hating him in the Roads? She certainly hated him now._

_Baltan's gentle fingers closed over her own. "You can't know that," he chided her in a kind voice. "Every child is a well of possibility. The baby's father is a king, isn't he? Who's to say the little one won't grow up to inherit a kingdom?"_

_"A half-elf," she snapped. "As if any country would ever accept such a ruler."_

_Baltan shook his head, his voice becoming pedagogical. "Humans and elves together breed humans. Your babe will likely be fully human... it's why the Alienages exist, to keep the elves from breeding themselves out. The human gene is just stronger, I suppose."_

_Fiona rolled her eyes. Baltan wasn't telling her anything she didn't already know. She'd seen enough brutality from humans to know what happened when they procreated with elves. The point remained; her child would be an outcast in either society. Scooping up a wooden stirrer, she whirled it through her brew. "Any more good news?"_

_Frustration carved furrows in Baltan's forehead, but then he shrugged, the lines smoothing as he shook his head. "Fine. Do what you've always done - push everyone away." His boots were loud in her ears as he meandered toward the exit._

_Muttering to herself, Fiona turned back to her work._

_"Strength comes in all shapes, you know."_

_Spinning, she glared daggers at the mage, but he'd already disappeared around the corner._

_Turning back to the counter, she stared at her preparations, her mind jumbled. Push everyone away? The world had chosen to shove her out first. Baltan's bleeding heart beliefs wouldn't change that._

_The potion was ready; all that was needed was to drink it and her problems would be over. Why would she make any other choice? It wasn't as if she was especially maternal; children held no fascination for her. Squalling brats who needed attention all the time, who demanded everything of those who cared for them. Too well did she recall parents in the alienage, holding their babies as they cried, all of them starving to death. What right had she to bring an unwanted life into the world, when she'd seen just how dark that world could be?_

_A memory of Maric flashed through her mind, a blissful smile on his face as he held her and kissed her. She'd felt safe with him... loved._

_Gritting her teeth, she choked back the sob that threatened. Was she in for months of such mood swings? How could she hate him one moment and remember him fondly the next? What was _wrong_ with her?_

Nothing that won't be fixed momentarily,_ she thought._

_But... What would Maric say, if he saw her here, now? Would he condone this choice?_

It doesn't matter_, she thought. _It's my choice to make, not Maric's. Where is he now? Back in Ferelden with his son, where he belongs. He will never know of this...

_Though she should have been relieved at that, the knowledge filled her with sadness. Maric would have been delighted... it was in his soul to be a father._

_But it wasn't in hers to be a mother._

_Steeling herself, Fiona poured the liquid into a mug. Shaking hands wrapped around it, preparing to finish what should never have been started._

_Her hand should have lifted the potion. Her mouth should have blown off the steam. Her lips should have closed over the edge._

_That's what should have happened._

_Instead, the cup was dashed from the counter by her trembling hand, the precious potion splashing over the floor, unrecoverable. Shaking, Fiona leaned upon the countertop, the hard edges digging into her palms as her choice sank in._

_Baltan was back in a second, his arms around her again as she curled into his embrace. Tendrils of fear wound through Fiona's heart, but the presence of Compassion untangled them almost immediately. "It will be fine," he crooned. "I promise."_

Well, it hadn't _quite_ been fine. Almost, though.

Baltan had done everything possible to ease her through her pregnancy, to make sure she stayed healthy and well. When she began to show, the two of them left the Anderfels. Baltan cooked up some sort of reasoning to appease the order. Citing a need to research plants in the southern hemisphere, he took Fiona with him on the grounds that she needed further training as a spirit healer. The two of them had wandered south and then east as the months crept by, skirting the Frostback Mountains. Ferelden was wrapped in late spring when they arrived, the trees all in flower. By then, Fiona knew Baltan wanted her to choose Denerim as the place her baby would be born. It had taken her another month to decide, at which point she'd truly been running out of time.

As evidenced by the insanity of the previous evening.

The baby yawned, his tiny mouth stretching to comic proportions. Fiona giggled at him again... he was so funny. So little, so soft. So dependent on her. And as a bonus - healthy. Not a trace of the Taint was in her child's blood. Baltan had tested him soon after they'd shooed Maric off to bed, the baby squalling as a drop of blood was taken from the heel of his foot. Whatever had healed Fiona must not have had anything to do with her pregnancy, after all. It had made her rather giddy.

Baltan startled awake, his eyes flying open. "Hmm?" he asked in a ragged voice, blinking against the morning's brightness.

"Hey you," Fiona grinned. "Sleep well?"

Baltan grunted as he pushed himself up on the bed. Never a man of words in the morning; Fiona had learned this of her longtime companion.

Today, though, he surprised her with uncharacteristic wakefulness. Elbowing his way across the bed, he peered at the baby. "He looks good," Baltan said in a sleep-filled voice. "You should be resting, though."

"This guy's been keeping me up," Fiona cooed, another smile lifting her mouth as she tapped the tiny boy's nose. "And I like it. He's the life of the party."

Baltan chuckled.

From outside the hallway door came a confused voice, male and muffled. "Um... I could swear there was a door here last night..."

Fiona's eyebrows rose. Maric might not have been the smartest mabari in the pack, but surely he had the capacity to find a door, especially since his voice seemed to be coming from right behind it.

Baltan staggered from the bed and crossed the room, pulling open the door a moment later. A very confused Maric stood on the other side, a basket hooked over one arm and a blanket laid over the other. "Oh," the monarch stammered. "There was no-"

"I hid it," Baltan said with a yawn. "I thought it might be easier if no one came looking."

Mirth tickled Fiona's lips as she realized that to Maric's vision, the hallway had ended in nothing but walls.

Baltan ushered Maric into the room, relieving him of his basket and setting it on a chair. The man's eyes filled with wonder as he crossed the few feet to Fiona's bedside. "Hi," he said with a goofy grin.

Laughter tumbled out as Fiona looked at Ferelden's king, hopeful as a puppy begging for cuddles. "You look chipper."

Shyness touched Maric's face as he stepped a bit closer. "Can I sit?"

Without a word, Fiona shifted her legs, making room for Maric to perch at her feet. Realizing she had no idea what to say, she busied herself instead with the bundle in her arms. Tucking blankets and ensuring the baby wasn't cold or uncomfortable suddenly became quite important.

Baltan cleared his throat. "Fiona. You wanted to wash your hair, didn't you?"

"Sorry?" Fiona turned to stare at Baltan, who was opening a hinged screen across one corner of the room. "You mean now?"

He lifted his chin at the king, a sly look in his eyes. "When better, when Maric is here to hold the baby?"

Eagerness lit Maric's eyes.

The fierce protectiveness that washed over Fiona shocked her a little. No one but herself had held her son since he'd left her womb; even when he'd needed changing, it had only been for a few moments while Baltan showed her what needed doing. He'd been back in her embrace as soon as he was clean... could she just hand him over to someone else, like it was nothing?

"I'll take him," Maric offered, hesitant hands stretching toward the infant . "I won't - drop him, or anything."

"You sure?" One eyebrow lifted as she pinned Maric with a piercing stare. "Because I'd cut your balls off if you did."

"Fiona." Baltan's voice held vague amusement, but she recognized the note of chastisement as well. "Let the man hold his son."

Grumbling, Fiona rose up on her knees to tuck the boy into his father's arms. Maric looked terrified he might break the little bundle, though the determination on his face was almost sweet.

"Ten minutes," Fiona warned. "Then I get him back." Moving slowly, she eased herself off the bed. Giving birth hadn't crippled her as she'd been afraid it would. She'd eased most of the discomfort with her magic, but it would be a bit of time yet before she felt like running up a mountain.

.oOo.

How could anything be this little and be real?

Fascinated, Maric studied his newborn son. The urge to sketch overtook him, his fingers itching to commit the miracle to ink. Children grew and changed so rapidly... He had a few sketches of Cailan and Rowan, but not nearly enough.

Two eyes colored a deep, murky blue, a ridiculously little nose... his chin, though. That was pronounced already. Maric chuckled, mesmerized by the tiny canyon nestled beneath the baby's lower lip. He found himself touching his own face - was _his _chin so pronounced? Brushing one finger across the little cleft, he startled when the boy's mouth opened in response.

"You're being far too quiet out there." Fiona's worried voice drew Maric out of his contemplation. "You haven't dropped him, have you?"

"It's fine, Fiona," Baltan's voice soothed from behind the screen. "Let him be."

Feminine muttering could be heard, then the sound of water splashing.

"She's not as bad as she seems," Maric whispered to his son. "Mostly she wants people to think she's tough."

"I heard that - ahh!" More water splashed, drowning out Fiona's protesting yelp.

"Sorry." Maric thought he heard a hint of amusement in the healer's voice.

Fiona sputtered. "Damn it, Baltan."

"Language," Maric admonished as he grinned at the infant. "You kiss your child with that mouth?'

"Shut it, human," Fiona growled, poking her dripping head from behind the screen. "You have eight minutes."

Maric touched the baby's silken cheek. "He needs a name."

"What?" Fiona spoke in a muffled voice.

"A name," Maric called out, hoping he wasn't going to startle the little one. It seemed not; the baby blinked at him, his miniature mouth stretching wide as he yawned. Maric's heart melted.

Even as he regarded the tiny wonder in his arms, an ache blossomed in his chest. Cailan had been this small once, he was certain of it. Duty had kept Maric away from Denerim and his new bride following their wedding. Rowan had played the part of patient and supportive queen as he chased about the countryside with Loghain, focused on mopping up the last of the Orlesian forces. But it was a bit miraculous that Cailan had been conceived at all. His eldest child had been a toddler by the time he came home to sleep beside his wife and rule his kingdom. Always, though, there was someone else there, preventing him from spending time with the boy the way he should have. Rowan herself, or one of Rowan's handmaidens, or Loghain, or his wife Celia - all of them _meant_ well, but the years had crept by without Maric and Cailan having the chance to form the bond a father and son should have.

And then Rowan had sickened, wasting away in the space of a few months. A wound had been carved upon his heart with her death. The girl who'd been his best friend and queen, the one who'd been such a tower of strength, the one he'd grown to admire and even love - gone. Such helplessness he'd endured as he'd watched her die, and it had only increased when the son he'd barely had a chance to connect with was thrust upon him. People had expected him to simply know what to do. Many had been his sleepless nights. He knew_nothing_ of being a father, despite his desperate desire to be one.

Sadly, it had taken only a few awkward moments to convince Cailan's governess her charge was better off in her constant company. And with the dubious looks the woman had given him when he tried to interact with his son, Maric had been convinced he was hopeless, that he'd end up doing more harm than good. It had been easier to let her care for Cailan than to try and learn. Guilt had plagued him - shouldn't _he_ be the one raising his own child? But Ferelden had needed a king. He was only one man, after all, and while he could employ the best of care for Cailan, the country couldn't be left in other hands - or so Loghain kept telling him.

Now, though, he wondered if he hadn't gotten his priorities badly crossed.

Holding this child was different. There was no hovering woman with judgemental eyes, telling him he was doing it wrong and scooping the child away before he could learn. Here was his chance to form a bond with his son. This life had been created out of love.

"Three minutes! And you'd better be supporting his head!" Fiona yelled from behind the screen.

_Or maybe not. _Perhaps love wasn't the word he was looking for. Maric rolled his eyes. Baltan had been mistaken; it wouldn't take even a few days for Fiona to be back to her old self. She was already there, and it was wonderful to have her back.

If love wasn't _quite_ what he and Fiona had experienced, at least it had been mutual need, a desire for normality in the midst of chaos. Not some dutiful action performed for the sake of the throne. It was like Maric had been handed a second chance, an opportunity to be the father he _should_ have been the first time around.

He'd be damned if he wasted it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Fiona rounded the screen, a towel draped over her head as she rubbed briskly to dry her hair. "I'll take him now," she announced as she tossed the towel aside to climb back on the bed.

"Fiona, leave the man be. You're hounding him." Baltan's calm eyes settled on the impatient elf as he plucked the towel up from the floor to lay it over the back of a chair. "The baby will be fine with Maric while you comb your hair and eat something."

"I'm not hounding him," Fiona huffed.

"He's right, though. You should eat." Maric tipped his head toward a large basket at the end of the bed, ignoring the dramatic eyeroll the elf offered in response to his suggestion. "I brought breakfast."

That stilled her, though her tangled hair swung in a comical fashion as she paused in her determined crawl across the mattress. Her eyes darted back to land on the basket. Conflicted, she bit her lip as she looked from her son to the food and back again.

"Eat," Baltan said again, a look of affectionate exasperation warming his tone. "Your body needs the nourishment so you can pass it to the baby."

Fiona considered, her tired eyes flitting between the healer, Maric, the baby, and the basket of food. At the most, she could have only gotten a few hours of sleep. The shadows beneath her eyes were the proof. Stubborn as she was, Maric was tempted to insist she listen to reason and take care of herself. Fortunately, she saved him the trouble. After one last hard look at both of the men, she backed off the bed once more.

Maric ducked his head, nestling the baby tighter against his chest as he tried to hide the triumphant grin spreading across his face. It seemed he'd won the right to a few more minutes.

Blissful silence descended as both Baltan and Fiona tucked into the generous breakfast Maric had managed to put together. Nothing fancy, but the cold sausage, fruit, bread and butter seemed to please them well enough. Smuggling everything out of the kitchen without drawing the attention of the staff had been Maric's main difficulty. Something would have to be done about their other meals, though; it wasn't as if he could order food delivered to their room. Fiona continued to watch him closely, shoveling her breakfast in like a woman possessed.

He shifted uncomfortably beneath the slight woman's penetrating stare. Was he doing something wrong? Holding the boy too tightly, perhaps? He glanced at Baltan, seeking some sort of clarification about Fiona's scrutiny. The healer was simply eating, the very picture of nonchalance as he chewed and swallowed. So then, perhaps it was Fiona who was the problem, not himself. Maric's confidence crept back.

"For the love of Andraste, Fiona!" Baltan scolded when she jammed an entire slice of bread into her mouth, her cheeks pouching out like a chipmunk's. "Slow down. I forbid you to hold the baby for another half hour."

"Wha!" Fiona choked out around her mouthful. More protesting sounds came out, but Baltan silenced her with a raised eyebrow. Fiona slumped into a glowering slouch, her annoyed gaze shifting between Baltan and Maric, as though she couldn't quite decide who was the greater bane in her life.

Maric chuckled, which earned him another scathing glare. Fiona's attempts at being stern only endeared her to him more. Her entire face scrunched in the most adorable way, her dark eyes flashing with lively ire. That she was so tiny only made her scowl less frightening. With her pointed ears, large eyes and narrow face, she looked more like a petulant child than a grown woman. Seeing her thus had only reawakened Maric's desire to coax a smile out of her. It was such a lovely smile, the effort was more than worth it.

Baltan brushed crumbs from his hands as he turned to the king. A significant look fell on the small blanket Maric had set on the bed. "What else did you bring this morning, Maric?"

It seemed the mage had chosen to play the part of mediator. With Fiona being as prickly as she was, Maric couldn't help but be grateful. "I dug it out of Cailan's old things," Maric said, wondering if he dared reach for it while holding his son. Fiona's hawkish eyes remained glued to the baby, so he settled for a jerk of his head. "Rowan used to say it was a magic blanket."

"Hmm," Fiona sniffed as she swallowed the last of her mouthful. "Really. What's so magical about it?"

"When Cailan fussed, she would wrap him in it and rock him." Finding the blanket had wakened a host of memories, and even now a lump came to his throat. The recollection of Rowan, her head bowed over their son as she soothed him back to sleep... "He never failed to settle down."

"My son is hardly fussy," Fiona pointed out in a haughty voice. "He's perfect."

Baltan reached over to lift the baby blanket from the bed where Maric had laid it. He smoothed a hand over the simple cream-colored fabric, offering the king a nod of approval at the fineness of the material. Such softness Maric had rarely felt. It was spun from the hair of goats who roamed the Anderfels, the special under-fleece collected in the spring when they shed - or some such thing. That was what the merchant had told him when he'd purchased the blanket following Cailan's birth. But the origin of the yarn hardly mattered. It was lightweight, extremely warm, and one of the finest weaves Maric had ever seen. Rowan had been in love with the blanket.

Circling the bed, Baltan opened it into a neat square, then gestured for Maric to lay the baby down. Til now he'd been wrapped in an old sheet, and removing the binding disturbed the little one enough that he began to fuss. With deft hands, Baltan swaddled the boy anew, then settled him back into Maric's arms, the 'magic' blanket tucked securely around him. No sooner had he been snuggled close than the baby drifted off to sleep.

"See?" Maric grinned.

"He's tired," Fiona pronounced, disdainful. "Of course he went to sleep. You exhausted him."

"'Tis a fine gift, Your Majesty." He flicked a pointed look at Fiona before returning his focus to Maric. "Fiona thanks you, as does your son. And if I may say, it is past time you named him." The healer brushed a gentle hand over the golden down covering the babe's head. "We cannot keep calling him 'him'. And as names are highly personal things, I shall leave the two of you to work it out." Striding across the room, the mage took up his staff from where it leaned in the corner. Passive eyes slid from Maric to Fiona, amusement quirking the corners of his mouth. "Try not to kill each other while I'm gone?"

"Where are you going?" Fiona demanded, her eyes going wide.

"Into town," Baltan replied. "There are supplies here in Denerim that I cannot get elsewhere."

A strangled noise came from Fiona's throat. "Uh-"

"If he wakes, feed him. If he's wet, change him. And when I get back, you'll be able to tell me what to call him, other than _he_," Baltan continued as he palmed the secret panel that led to the escape tunnel. Maric stared, nonplussed. It seemed the mage had watched more closely than he'd realized. The decorative chair rail disguised the exit button quite well - or so Maric had thought.

Another second and Baltan had slipped into the hidden passage, leaving the Warden and the king and their child to themselves.

Fiona tensed as the panel slid shut, her wary gaze whipping toward Maric as though she were afraid he might grow two more limbs and devour her whole. Maric could hardly blame her - being alone with Fiona was a bit more than he'd been prepared for, himself. The elephant in the room loomed, swaddled in a blue-edged blanket.

After a moment, though, Fiona eased herself off the bed. "I should comb my hair," she mumbled.

Maric cleared his throat, searching for something to say. She hadn't changed... she was still the same lovely girl he'd fallen for in the Roads. It was difficult not to stare, to fill his eyes with the sight of her. "You look good."

Fiona snorted. "Sure I do. You're such a polite liar."

"No, you do. ...I mean, I missed you." Maric held his breath as Fiona paused before the room's vanity. A few toiletry items had been set on the counter, probably by Baltan. Her slim hands lingered over the comb, her face turned down to stare at it. Maric cleared his throat, grasping for another topic of conversation. "How's Duncan?"

"He's good." Fiona's voice maintained a careful neutrality as the comb rose to work through her tangled locks. She worked with careful precision, her deft fingers smoothing each knot into nonexistence. "Because of that black dagger, the Taint never progressed in him like it did for the rest of us. He's holding onto the blade for now - hoping to stave it off, I guess."

"And you... you made a full recovery?" How he hoped she had. Seeing her alive was incredible enough, though. Just to know she had at least a few years left - but what of their son? How long would she be able to care for him before she was claimed by the Taint? Somehow, he had to find the courage to make his offer. He owed Fiona that, owed his son the chance to grow up with at least one parent.

"Nope. Died." Fiona shot him an ironic glance, her eyes twinkling.

"Well, you look great for a corpse." Maric shook his head with an amused grin. "The point of the question was, are you okay now? Because you look - well, you look great."

Fiona slid the comb through her now sleek hair one last time before tossing it back to the counter. "I'm well enough."

"And the Taint? When you left, you said..."

"It's gone," she said in a simple voice. "The mages at Weisshaupt weren't sure if it was because the First Enchanter's brooches sped things up artificially, or... at any rate, all the corruption vanished. They don't think it's going to come back, either. There was test after test, but they think I may be the first Grey Warden that never has to endure the Calling."

"That's amazing, Fiona!" Maric couldn't help his delighted smile. "You can live a full life! You never have to..." He trailed off, recalling the _things_ her companions had become. When they'd parted before, she'd been so far gone that he'd been certain she was going to die, that he would never see her again. To hear the opposite now, that she was fully cured... it was nothing less than miraculous.

"It's fantastic, I agree." One of those rare smiles dimpled Fiona's cheeks.

"What did it?" Maric asked, fascinated.

Fiona blinked. "What did what?"

"Cured you. Was it just...I mean, removing the brooches shouldn't have banished the Taint, right? Was there something else? Did the mages heal you at all, or did you take a potion, or...?"

Fiona hesitated, her eyes darting to the child in his arms. "Uh... no. There wasn't anything they did specifically to heal me... I just got better. Puzzling, I know."

"Huh." Maric looked down at the baby as he pondered. What could have cured her? From the casual way she was talking about it, it seemed the Wardens didn't really care to uncover the secret. Were it up to him, he'd have been employing every effort to figure it out. "What about Duncan? He wore one of the brooches too - is he-"

"He's the same, unfortunately. But he was never affected by the brooches the way we were."

Maric nodded, turning the mystery over in his mind. It was sad to think of Duncan going the way of his predecessors, but the fact was it was a condition of the order. Except for Fiona, apparently... the offhanded way she was discussing the whole thing boggled him a bit. "It's just so strange."

"I'm not worried about it," she said lightly. "The Wardens aren't, so why should we be? I want to hear about you." She sank down on the bed, honest concern furrowing her brow. "How are you? I mean, really?"

"I'm... better," he said, acknowledging her deeper question. "I'm here, which I almost didn't expect a few times."

"And the kingdom?"

"Better," he said again, pleased at her genuine interest. "I'm taking a more active role. Loghain has been able to step away a bit. He's still far more involved than I care for, though. Trust has been lost," he sighed. "He doesn't believe me when I say I won't leave again, that I'm here for the long haul."

"Well, you _did_ sneak off in the middle of the night with a bunch of Wardens," Fiona teased. "You haven't exactly proven yourself trustworthy."

Maric smiled. The fact that he'd been sneaking out when he found her and Baltan didn't seem worth mentioning. "Even so, this is _my_ kingdom, not his. I don't intend for Loghain to keep hold of the reins forever. There's so much to be done, things he needs to let me do. I've arranged trade meetings with some of our neighboring countries. Loghain isn't sure whether to be impressed or infuriated, I think..." he paused. He'd begun babbling, his excitement over his upcoming plans tumbling the words out. How interested could she really be, though? "You don't want to hear this. This is boring. I'm boring you."

Fiona shook her head, a contented smile touching her lips. "You should hear yourself. You actually sound excited about ruling. It's inspiring. So different than when you came with us."

Maric nodded. His life _had _changed since following the Wardens into the Roads. Since Fiona.

"And Cailan? How is he?" Fiona reached back into the basket, coming up with a slice of apple and popping it into her mouth.

"Cailan has been clingy. But who could blame him, after the way I left? The matron has to pry him from my legs sometimes. I really want to be a father to him... I just don't always know how."

She nodded in understanding, dark humor quirking her brows. "I've been a mother all of seven hours and I'm terrified."

"You'll be a fine mother. A great one." Maric offered an encouraging smile.

A wry look crossed Fiona's face. "Nothing in my life has prepared me for motherhood, Maric. I had no parents of my own. I was sold into slavery to an abusive prick. Then I went to the Circle - they're not models of caring, you know. And now I'm a Warden. I exist to kill Darkspawn... terribly parental, isn't it?" She gave a bitter laugh. "There was a time I was so grateful to be a Warden. It was the thing that saved me. And now it's nothing but a curse."

"So... don't be one."

Fiona turned to stone, her face going blank. "What?"

This was it - the opportunity he'd hoped for. Maric sat up straighter, hope coursing through his veins. "Stay, Fiona. You don't have to go back to Weisshaupt. Stay here, with our son... With me."

She said nothing at first, simply froze like a deer that had sighted a hunter. Fear, confusion, mistrust - the emotions wrinkled her brow, her unblinking eyes searching his face for his true intent. In a sudden movement, she rose from the bed to give him her back. Tension molded her shoulders as her hands clasped her neck, then slid forward to cover her face. Maric held his breath, waiting.

When she turned and spoke at last, everything about her was tightly controlled, her voice a taut monotone. "I wasn't sure I wanted to come back at all."

Maric's heart sank. "You didn't? Why? I mean... well, why not?"

She shook her head, frustrated. "Because - now what, Maric? Where do we go from here?"

He blinked, a bit taken aback. From here? "If it were up to me?"

Fiona folded her arms, awaiting his response. She had yet to meet his eyes, her own dark orbs canted sideways as she held herself tight.

"You would stay." He indicated the baby. "_He_ would stay. Both of you, here. With me. Is that so wrong?"

"Maric..." Fiona's eyes fell shut as she shook her head. "You're like a child."

"Why?" Maric demanded. "Because I see a thing I want and I ask for it? Because I have faith that we can find a way - even though I can already see the problems you're anticipating? I don't _care_, Fiona." He glanced down at the baby, who slept on, completely at peace. Shifting away from the edge of the bed, he settled his son into the center before climbing to his feet.

Fiona watched, apprehension carving lines in her forehead. Whether she was concerned for the baby or simply afraid of what might happen next remained to be seen. No matter what her reaction would be, he'd come too far to stop now.

Maric squared his shoulders, rubbing damp hands nervously along his doublet. For months he'd dreamed of the woman who stood before him, had spent days preserving her image on canvas before she faded from his memory. There must be something he could say, some magical phrase that would break past her barriers once and for all. He'd done it in the Roads. Surely he could do it again.

A few steps and he'd closed the distance. Her hold on herself tightened, though she didn't back away, only tilted her face upward. So guarded was her countenance, yet her eyes begged him to continue. Such a paradox. It was what had drawn him to her from the very first. Despite her defensive exterior, the woman he'd fallen for revealed everything through her expressive eyes. More than anything, he longed to carve his way through that protective shell, to free the passionate woman who existed within. She'd opened up to him in the Roads; she could do it again. Maric craved her fire, needed to bring her back to life. To hold her close and let her know it was safe to live in his world, that he would never allow a breath of harm to come to her or their son.

"Fiona..." he began.

"What?" she muttered in annoyance, her tone challenging him to come up with something that wasn't overly sentimental.

He ignored her, responding instead to her liquid gaze. "Fiona, I..."

She backed away a cautious step, alarm filling her eyes. "No, Maric. Don't do this."

Hands reaching to clasp her arms, Maric gathered his courage as he drew her back toward him. "Fiona, I've thought of little else but you for months. You were the one thing that got me through the Roads. When I watched you ride away from Denerim, part of my heart went with you. I don't think I can bear to watch you leave again."

She shook her head, her eyes fearful. "I told you before. I'm a Warden, an elf, and a mage. I _can't stay_."

"Then why did you come here?" he demanded. He already knew the answer, all that was needed was to get her to admit it. "Why did you bring our son here? You could have birthed him elsewhere, kept him for yourself. But you didn't."

"I..." Fiona wriggled in his grasp. "Let go of me."

"No," he grinned. His hold wasn't tight - not so much that she couldn't wrench away. If Fiona truly wanted to leave, she could. At any time.

She glared at him, not appreciating the triumph on his face. "Don't get pushy, king."

Pushy was exactly what he wanted. Maric swooped in then, claiming her lips with his own. Fiona stiffened, but after a moment her arms wound around his neck. Her breath drew inward as his lips parted, his tongue seeking gentle entrance. She melted into him then, her mouth joining with his in a slow dance.

Maric wove one hand into her hair, reveling in the woman he held. Fiona had gone limp in his embrace, giving herself over to the moment. Lickings of heat seared his veins, the rush of desire he experienced almost crippling. Nothing could have persuaded him to take them beyond this moment, though. This simple kiss was enough to stagger him, and he savored it. Languid fingers curled into his hair as she sighed into him, her reaction to the kiss as powerful as his own. Maker, how he'd needed this. So many nights he'd lain awake, remembering the feel of her in his arms. So many days he'd sat distracted, recalling her scent and her taste and the sound of her voice.

The reality was so much better.

.oOo.

Fiona trembled.

Everything she remembered about Maric came back in a rush the moment his mouth slanted over hers. How strong his hands were, how tender his touch. The easy smile that lit up his face, the casual charisma he used to charm the world. It would be so simple to give in, to melt into a puddle at his feet and agree to his every demand. Stay, he said. Oh, how she wished she could.

But after a moment of losing herself in his kiss, she was shoving him back, struggling to escape his embrace. "No," she gasped. He'd stolen her breath with his amorous gesture. "Maric, you don't know what you're talking about."

"How can you say that?" he breathed, laughing. His arms tightened around her, preventing her flight. Just as well; her knees had turned to jelly, and if he'd let her go she probably would have toppled. "Fiona... I _love_ you."

"You don't," she said weakly as she she shook her head. "You loved Katriel."

"And you," he insisted. "I've never known such strength, such loyalty. You brought me back to myself. You _believed_ in me. 'Live,' you said. I'm trying." He took a breath, one hand rising to cup her cheek. "And I want you here with me while I do it."

Fiona's heart raced. His caress was was so intoxicating, her body betraying her logical mind. This was exactly what she'd been afraid of, why she'd hesitated to come back to Denerim. Maric had asked her to come with him, once. She'd wondered - how much more insistent would he be once he discovered she'd borne him a child? And would it be pity that drove his decision? A desire to 'do right' by her? She needed no man's sympathy, least of all the King of Ferelden's.

"Maric..." she shook her head again. Regardless of the fire blazing in his eyes, the consequences of them being together wasn't something he could afford to ignore. "You don't want this."

"I do," he said quietly. "I _want this_. I want you."

Taking a breath, Fiona steeled herself. His reaction would tell her much. In her heart of hearts, she wanted it, too. The fairytale ending, the princess who won the prince and lived happily ever after. But she'd been telling herself for so long that it was impossible that even now, with it almost in reach...

"And if he _wasn't_ yours?" She flicked a glance at the baby. "If we hadn't done this, if - if I wasn't-"

Maric's hazel eyes bored into hers. "Day and night, I've dreamed of you. When I saw your face last night, all I could think of was that you were here, that you were _finally_ here. The baby?" Maric glanced at him, then turned back to her, his face softening as he cuddled her close. "I want you both, now. But if he wasn't here... I'd still be asking. And if he wasn't mine, I'd _still_ be asking." One hand drew her head against his shoulder, tucking her safely into his chest.

A lump grew in her throat, her eyes burning as tears threatened. A choked laugh fell from Fiona's lips. "Shit, Maric. I almost think you mean it."

"I_ do_ mean it," he insisted. "Stay, Fiona. Stay... and be my wife."

Fiona's fingers clenched the fabric of his tunic. Though she'd almost expected those words after his confession of love, hearing them was another thing entirely. Her breathing quickened, heart racing at the idea. Be a wife to Maric? "I..."

The man who held her drew back to lock his gaze with hers. Hazel eyes intensified, his muscles twitching beneath her hands. From the look on his face, his entire world rested upon her answer.

_No_, she intended to say. The reasons were many. The Wardens, the throne. Their differences in race, in upbringing. And really, how well did they know each other? All they'd ever shared in the world was a few weeks of mortal danger, a few nights of pleasure, and now a child.

It could be she would hate him. It could be that a month from now, a year from now, ten years from now, she would look up from her soup and want nothing so much as to drive her blade between his eyes. Perhaps he hogged the covers, or got too loud when he was drunk. Perhaps he whored, or had a fearful temper, or hadn't an ounce of common sense when it came to everyday things.

In fact, that last one was probably true, considering his impromptu marriage proposal.

It was stupid even to think about. There was no way they could be together. It would be a disaster on every level... _Say no,_ she thought. _Now. Before you can't._

One of his hands rose to card through her hair, the soft entreaty in his eyes melting her resolve.

_No. No, no, no. _Common sense demanded it.

"Yes," her heart spoke for her, in a voice breathy and filled with light. "Yes. Yes, Maric. Yes!"

His hands tangled in her hair as he cradled her face in his hands. "Really?" The grin on his face was so wide, it was moronic.

"Shut up and kiss me," she whispered, yanking on his ears to bring him down to her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

What followed was pure bliss.

Fiona curled up beside Maric in the bed, their hands entwined and their baby son nestled between them. Maric leaned in often to brush her lips with his, his eyes glowing with love and contentment. Soft words were exchanged between them... promises for the future, plans of things to come.

Never had Fiona felt so loved. It was addictive, this aura of safety and happiness. _Any second now, I'll wake up_, Fiona fretted even as Maric's fingers traced her cheek. It was just too good to be real. A seedling of fear had embedded itself in her stomach after her acceptance of his proposal, but every touch did much to uproot it.

It would be fine. Maric's eyes told her so.

Even so, her anxiety soon fought its way through, and she asked, "What about the kingdom? What will they think?"

Maric shrugged, seeming unconcerned as he lifted her fingers to his lips. "Who I marry really shouldn't matter to them. Cailan is my heir, and this little one will be an excellent second. His existence alone should make the Landsmeet happy. There've been rumblings of getting me remarried for years, with the sole purpose of providing a 'spare.'"

"No. I don't want him mixed up in the intrigues of the court." Fiona shook her head, that disquieting clench returning to her belly. "I don't want him in line for the throne. He may be a Theirin, but his bloodline is divided, and I'd rather not put our son in harm's way."

"What harm could come to him?" Maric laughed, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "What safer place could there be for him than here, under our care?"

"Maric," Fiona hesitated. How to say this in a way that would make him listen... "You're being naive about this. He looks human, but his mother's still an elf. When Ferelden sees who I am - when they see _what _I am-"

"You're the woman I love," Maric cut her off. "And that's all_ I _care about. Why are we still talking about this?" His mouth captured hers again, halting further protests.

Silenced by his advances, Fiona trailed her hands over his chest, lacking the impetus to actually push him away. He was too delicious, and she too starved for his affection. As if Maric knew she intended to press the issue, he deepened the kiss, sending shivers of warmth through her. Fiona turned to jelly, but then she shoved at him with both hands, determined to have her say.

Maric chuckled against her mouth. His hand crept over her, squeezing the dip of her waist as he attempted to ease her closer. "Quiet, woman," he murmured. "How can I kiss you when you keep trying to talk?"

"How can you hear me when your ears are full of sawdust?" Fiona countered, ducking away at last. Her fingers pressed against his lips when he closed in again. "This is important, Maric. You say you love me. Give me this. Please."

He sighed, backing off as his eyes dropped to the little bundle between them. "He's a prince, Fiona. There's no reason why he shouldn't have his birthright."

"There's every reason," Fiona argued. "But mostly, I don't want this for him."

"But why?" Maric seemed puzzled. "What boy wouldn't do well to grow up a prince? He'll have the finest education, the best weapons training. He'll learn tactics, politics, strategy."

"He can learn all of that without being a prince. Maric..." Fiona wove her fingers through his. "If he's in line for the throne, he'll learn what it's like to live in fear," she said. "To be used and manipulated. He'll never feel like he can trust anyone, or he'll end up spoiled and entitled." Her eyebrows met as she entreated him. "Remember all you've told me about the burden of the crown. Have you forgotten?"

A frown dented Maric's brow as she spoke.

She closed her fingers over Maric's. "Our son can be... _anything_. An advisor, a warleader, Cailan's right hand man..."

Maric studied her, that same frown furrowing his forehead. "Does it really mean so much to you?"

"Yes, it really does. You have no idea. He'll face terrible things, being my child. No, listen to me," she interrupted when he began to protest. "You can't keep my race a secret from the country, and when they know what he is... he'll be tortured for it. Tormented. Maric, I've _seen_ it."

"I wouldn't allow any such thing," he swore. "Anyone who dared-"

"It wouldn't matter," she interrupted. "I know you wouldn't let anything happen to him, but the things you don't see are the things that will hurt him the most." Her mouth thinned to a tight slash as she recalled her own childhood. The contempt from humans, just for the supposed crime of being elven. There'd been a modicum of acceptance in the White Spire, but Maric would never understand the prejudices she'd been party to before then. There was no way she wanted her son to have that same stigma, not when he'd been blessed with rounded ears. "Please, Maric. He doesn't need that, and neither do you. And neither does Cailan."

The king sighed. "I don't understand why you wouldn't want this for him, or why you think this would be a hardship for me or Cailan. But, for now... nothing needs to be declared. Let's just take it as it comes?"

"Thank you," she whispered, then bent in to kiss him again.

The sound of the panel sliding open interrupted the moment. Fiona jerked back, then scrambled off the bed, smoothing her hair as her cheeks heated. What would Baltan think if he saw them like this?

Maric chuckled. "Ashamed of me already?"

"Shut it," she hissed at him.

Baltan stepped through the opening, unhooking the cloak from his shoulders as he entered. In one hand was a basket, and in the other a canvas rucksack. "Anything happen while I was gone?"

"Not much," Fiona said offhandedly. "Did you get what you needed?"

"I did." The healer draped his cloak over the back of the chair as he glanced at the baby. "So? What's his name?"

"Uh-" Fiona's heart jumped. She'd completely forgotten Baltan's edict. "His name."

A wry look flitted over the mage's face. "You didn't get around to naming him."

"Ha, right. That's funny. Of course we did," Fiona scoffed. "What kind of a mother would forget about naming her child?"

Maric said nothing, though one of his brows lifted. Wicked amusement sparkled in his eyes. Fiona shot him a pleading look as Baltan directed his attention to the basket, beginning to unpack it. The king only shrugged, shaking his head. _Damn it!_ The ass was going to let her twist.

Baltan glanced up. "If you haven't named him-"

The words spilled out in a rush. "No, we did. I already said we did, and we did. Why would I lie about something like that?" And yet, here she was, lying. _Why am I such a dunghead?_Damn her pride! This time it had really knocked her sideways. What did it matter if they needed an extra hour to name him? She cudgeled her brain for a name, but every male moniker she'd ever heard flitted out of her head, mocking her from just out of reach.

"...Ah." The corner of Baltan's mouth twitched. Clearly, he didn't believe her. "I am gratified to know you wasted no time in this task. And what have you decided?"

Fiona gulped, working her lip between her teeth. Her frantic thoughts were disrupted when Maric had the audacity to snicker. Fine… Let _him_ be the one to pull them out of this mess. "Go ahead, Maric. Tell him." She glared at him, crossing her arms.

"Well..." Maric shifted off the bed with an unconcerned stretch. "It's a great name. Fiona chose it herself." He gave Fiona a cheeky grin as he turned to Baltan. "And as such - I really think you should be the one to tell him, sweetheart. You put such thought into it."

"Sweetheart..." Baltan drawled, his dark eyes dancing as he pinned Fiona with a meaningful look. "What a beautiful endearment."

Fiona glowered. She'd had every intention of telling Baltan about Maric's proposal, but with him puffing up like the cat that ate the pigeon, she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction. The mage had been coaxing her toward Denerim for months, probably with this very outcome in mind. Void, take the nosy bastard.

Stalking to the bookshelf, Fiona yanked out a volume bound in blue cloth. Nimble fingers opened it at random, flipping purposefully. "Maric, you've got to get us something more to read," she complained, turning her back on the men as she scanned the pages for a name. Any name would do, as long as it got her out of this mess.

"What's his name, Fiona?" Baltan's slow, pointed voice demanded. "You say you have one. Do you, or not? Don't keep me in suspense. Of course, if you need more time..."

Snapping the book shut, she shoved it back onto the shelf with a put-upon sigh. "Seriously, this is drivel. You can't expect me to do nothing but sleep and care for little Alistair."

"...Alistair. Really." Baltan blinked at her, his mouth curving. "Unique. Just where did you get that? From a book?"

"No," she shot back. "I had a friend named that."

"Mmm." Baltan strolled to the shelf, plucking the book from where she'd shoved it. "A Hero's Legacy: The Sword of Starkhaven."

Fiona shrugged, her eyes on her feet. "Looks boring."

A full-out grin had broken over Maric's face. "Alistair. I love it. It's wonderful. Protector of the people - appropriate for a prince."

"What?!" Eyes wide, Fiona snatched the book from Baltan's hands. The title of the book splashed across the cover in fancy block print. A Hero's Legacy? With shaking hands, she opened to the first page, reading the opening paragraph.

_Heroes are not made... they are born. And for Alistair of the Righteous Sword and Shield, the story begins no differently._

Disgusted with herself, she closed the book again. "I lied. There's no way I'm naming him that."

"Why?" Baltan laughed. "Tis a fine name, even if you did pluck it off the page. I agree with Maric. An excellent name for a young prince."

"It is _not_," she snapped. "My son doesn't have to be a hero. He can be anything he wants. I'm not burdening him with a name like that!"

"Alistair of Starkhaven is a legend... the man was holy, a white knight who saved a princess from a dragon. It's a name worthy of royalty." The pleased smile on Maric's face only soured her stomach all the more. "I love it. Cailan and Alistair Theirin..."

"You're a twit," Fiona snarked. Just when had she lost control of the situation? "It's a _legend_. I was scrambling. What boy wants to grow up with a name like that? It's... old fashioned. Arrogant sounding. His name can be... uh-"

"Alistair." Baltan lifted the baby from the bed, his voice soft as he adjusted the blanket around the infant. "It's a name with destiny attached to it. Just like him. It suits him."

Frustration darkened Fiona's brow. There was no more destiny attached to her son than there was to the ridiculous mustache Baltan groomed with such precision. What kind of a name was Alistair? What had she been thinking? And now with Baltan cooing over the boy and Maric looking fit to burst... No. She couldn't just be stuck for it.

"I'm not calling him Alistair," she announced to no one in particular.

"Baltan, could you watch Alistair for a little bit? I want to get something from my room. Need anything?" Maric headed for the door.

"No, thank you Maric. I'll just hold Alistair until you get back."

"His name is NOT Alistair," Fiona said, louder.

Maric shot her a last grin as he opened the door. "Kiss Alistair for me, Fiona," he said, then ducked out before the pillow she threw could smack him in the face.

.oOo.

Still chuckling to himself, Maric sauntered off down the hall. Alistair. It was _perfect_. Fiona's choice couldn't have worked out more beautifully, as far as he was concerned.

Just why she didn't want little Alistair to have his birthright, though, that remained a mystery. Terrible things? Torment, just for being Fiona's son? It made no sense. Once Ferelden got to know Fiona, they would love her as much as he did. All that was needed was to introduce her, show them who his choice was. Though she would never be queen, there was no reason why she couldn't be his consort. Such things had been done in the past, marriages between kings and commoners. Why not now?

Though it couldn't be denied that no monarch had ever taken an elven consort before. The thought clouded him over momentarily, but he cheered up soon enough. There was always a first time, right?

Whistling to himself, Maric strode through the corridors. His sketchbook was just the thing he needed to while away the afternoon. By the time night fell, he planned on having his sketchbook filled with drawings of Fiona and Alistair to add to the ones of Rowan and Cailan. Memories were precious, and you never realized just how much until they were gone forever.

Happy in his rose-colored cloud, he took no notice of Loghain lurking in the upper hallway.


	5. Chapter 5

_Many thanks to my lovely beta, zoedigz13! _

**Chapter 5**

"Sweetheart."

"Shut up."

Baltan grinned at her. It was insufferable, the delight that glowed within him. From the violet glimmering that flowed over his skin, Compassion was just as tickled. "He called you _sweetheart_."

Fiona gnashed her teeth. "Baltan, I will end you."

"Oh, stop fussing," the mage scoffed as he settled himself on the bed, the bundle of child in his arms. "Maric loves you. This is a _good_ thing. I know how you feel for him, though you insist on hiding it as if it were something to be ashamed of. The best thing you two can possibly do is allow things to progress as they should."

Fiona rolled her eyes as she stalked over to flop onto her stomach beside him on the bed.

"Have you talked about the future at all?"

Fiona's head dropped into her hands as she groaned. "Baltan-"

"Have you?" the mage pressed. "There's nothing wrong with making plans, and you didn't spend the hours I was away in naming Alistair."

Fiona's mouth twisted as she stroked her fingers over her son's downy head. "I suppose I'll get used to the name. It doesn't sound that bad, now that I've had a few minutes to think about it."

"It's a great name," Baltan said firmly. "I approve. Now, tell me what you and Maric _did_ do while I was gone."

.oOo.

He'd gone directly to see Eamon in his suite after leaving Fiona and Alistair. If he was going to spend the day with his new son and fiancé, he needed a plausible reason for disappearing and cancelling plans. Besides which, he and Fiona had decisions to talk over, arrangements to make. Before he began caroling the news to all and sundry he wanted to be certain the two of them had everything worked out.

Now he and his young brother-in-law sat before a cold hearth, the tea and scones untouched and growing cold as Maric spun his yarn. "It's a delicate situation. I dare not send anyone else, and negotiations may keep me sequestered all day. You understand."

Eamon nodded. "I do. Our hunt can be postponed. Though I wish you would tell me just who has come to town. I could even go with you, if you'd like. The political waterfall effect-"

"Don't trouble yourself, Eamon." Maric gave a casual wave of his hand. "Likely it will all come to nothing, though I dare not refuse to see the delegation. It will be boring, and you will count yourself lucky to have spent the day in more pleasurable pursuits."

Eamon chuckled. "Yes, I'm such a man of vice."

"Andraste's undergarments," Maric laughed. "Your visit to Denerim was meant to be relaxing, with minimal work. Spend the day in the gardens, or read a book from cover to cover. Better yet, visit the Gnawed Noble. No doubt, there's some scandalous thing being discussed. Who knows... you might even meet someone." This last was suggestive. Eamon was an eligible bachelor, and plenty of noble families would crawl through the Void to join themselves to the Guerrins and Redcliffe.

Eamon shook his head, one corner of his mouth lifting. "There is no one in Ferelden I wish to marry."

Maric's mouth skewed. Well did he know the pain of being forced to separate from the woman one loved. "Have you kept up with Isolde at all?"

Eamon shrugged, though the resignation in his eyes hardly matched his casual air as he leaned back in his chair. "No, sadly. It's best if the both of us move on. She has a beautiful future waiting for her in Orlais. What man wouldn't wish to wed a girl like Isolde?"

"Eamon!" Maric exclaimed, exasperated. "If you love the woman, go get her!"

But the young man only pressed his lips shut as he raked one hand through his dark hair.

"Why not?" Maric demanded. "Give me one good reason-"

"I'll give you several, my liege. Orlais is an enemy - one we've only just defeated. Ferelden would hardly smile on a marriage to anyone from that country. Then, there's the fact that her father occupied Redcliffe for four years. If I marry Marcel Desmarais' daughter, it will look like an infiltration. And besides..." Eamon's voice softened. "What if she really _is _a spy?"

An image of Katriel fluttered through his mind. Maric sighed. He could hardly imagine the youthful, romantic girl Eamon had trysted with to be capable of such underhandedness... but then, Katriel hadn't seemed like the type, either. He himself had been shocked to discover Eamon's plans to elope with Isolde a few years before. What with Meghren's defeat and Fereldan forces mopping up the last of the Orlesians, the political consequences of such a marriage would have been devastating.

Discomfort wormed in Maric's gut. Similar reasoning could be applied to why he shouldn't marry Fiona, and he'd been ignoring it. The elves weren't an accepted part of human society, and the mages were similarly shunned. They were kept segregated, and though he'd never really thought about why before, the why's would hardly matter in the face of an angry mob.

_But I love her_, Maric thought, his heart aching. And what of little Alistair? Could he give up both of them to appease small-minded bigots who'd never had an original thought in their lives?

_No_, he promised himself. He couldn't lose Fiona, not to something so stupid. People _could _change; he had to believe that. Maric refused to wave the white flag before he'd even tried. "Eamon, if you love her, those things can be overcome."

"Can they?" A bitter chuckle fell from the young arl's lips as he eyed Maric. "Rowan was fit to be tied when she found out about Isolde. She seemed to think such a pairing would do the country irreparable harm. Tell me, Maric - would _you_ sanction my marriage to such a woman?"

"Without question." Maric's voice did not waver as he met Eamon's gaze. "Isolde is the one you wish to marry. I wouldn't care if she was from Nevarra, or Rivain, or if she'd crawled up from the pits of the Void. She's a woman first and an Orlesian second. You deserve to be with her... that's the way it is."

Eamon blinked. "Uh... thank you, Maric."

Standing, the king clapped a hand on the young arl's shoulder. "I'm overdue for my meeting. If you wish to sponsor Isolde into Ferelden, you'll have the throne's blessing. What more would you need? There's no reason why you shouldn't have happiness, Eamon. Think on it. Will you?"

Eamon nodded, his brows creased. It seemed he'd been given much to ponder, which was all to the good as far as Maric was concerned.

Whistling to himself, the king hurried to his suite to gather his sketchpad and charcoals. Perhaps Eamon would find the courage to face down political opposition, with Maric and Fiona leading the way. Ferelden was overdue for this sort of change.

.oOo.

"Hold still," Maric murmured as he sketched. "Giggling isn't helpful."

Fiona stuck her tongue out at him from where she reclined on the bed, their son in her lap as he nursed. "You get what you get. I'm not posing for you like some... _floozy_."

"I'll have you know, there are wealthy women who pay to have their portraits done." Maric returned in a distracted voice as he shaded.

"Ninnies, all of them." One hand rose to scrub her face, then combed back through her hair.

"This isn't for you. It's for me." He glanced up, eager to absorb the lines of her face. How different, to have his subject live before him! Far preferable to dredging through his faulty memory. He frowned... she looked wrung out. The shadows beneath her eyes had deepened.

Baltan's gaze never left _A Hero's Legacy _as one hand turned the page. "Play nice, children."

Fiona rolled her eyes, then curved over to brushed her lips across Alistair's forehead. She eased him from her breast, settling him at her side before tying her blouse shut once more. A yawn stretched her mouth wide, the back of her hand rising to cover it as her eyes squinched.

"You're exhausted." Maric tucked the pencil behind his ear and set the sketchpad aside. "Sleep for awhile."

"No," Fiona murmured, her eyes still clamped shut. "What about Alistair?"

"Baltan or I will watch him." Rising from his chair, Maric stretched a bit. The hours had flown while he lost himself in idle chat and artwork. It was likely he couldn't get away with being "gone" from the palace for very much longer. Tomorrow, something would have to change.

Fiona curled her arm beneath a pillow as Maric made his way to the bed. He lifted her feet, ignoring her murmured protests as he shifted the blankets and slipped her delicate frame beneath them, tucking her in. The baby remained at her side.

Maric smoothed a hand over her brow, dropping a kiss on her soft skin. "I've got to go check in with everyone... I'll be back later, my love," he whispered. "Need anything?"

"You," she mumbled. "Hurry."

More beautiful words couldn't exist. "I promise," he told her softly. She was already half asleep.

Baltan glanced up from his book, giving Maric a friendly smile as the king gathered his things and tucked them into his satchel.

"I'll be back in a few hours." Maric hesitated, thinking of the words he wanted to say as he slung the bag over his shoulder. "Baltan... thank you. Thank you so, so much. Without you, Fiona wouldn't be here - and I might never have met Alistair."

Baltan rose to his feet, a kindly look in his eye as he set the book aside. "'Twas no trouble, Your Majesty. Fiona loves you well, though she may never admit it. Glad I am that the two of you have found each other in this hurtsome world."

"I am, too. You don't know how much." Maric held out a hand, and the healer took it. "I won't be long."

"Aye." Baltan settled himself in his chair again. "I'll care for them til you return."

With a last look at the sleeping woman and baby, Maric slipped through the hidden passage, heading out into Denerim proper. From there, he would meet his guards and make his way back through the palace gates in time to put Cailan to bed.

.oOo.

The suite was dark, without even a candle burning to cut the restful gloom. Fiona blinked, unsure of why she'd woken, until she heard fretful sounds from her left.

"Oh, baby," she cooed, scooting up in bed. A dull ache throbbed deep within her breasts, and the sound of her son's cries only sharpened the discomfort. "You're hungry."

She found Alistair in the blackness and unwrapped him, checking his diaper before settling him into the circle of her arms. It was a touch awkward without Baltan's help, but after a few minutes she managed well enough, and sighed as she cuddled back into her pillows. _It isn't as if Baltan can help me forever anyway,_ she thought. _About time I started doing it myself. _One hand lifted to smooth his silken cheek as he nursed.

Suddenly, she wondered what time it was. The room had no windows, making an accurate assessment impossible. Where was Maric? Hadn't he said he'd be back soon? How long had she slept? She was still groggy, so it couldn't yet be morning.

"Fiona?" Baltan murmured, his sleep-soaked voice coming from the center of the room.

"Alistair's just hungry," she said softly. "We didn't mean to wake you. Were you sleeping in the chair?"

"Mm," he mumbled. "Compassion woke me just now. Something's going on in the castle."

"What kind of something?"

"Not sure yet." Baltan's voice garbled itself around his yawn. "But he's quite insistent - he wants us to go and see. Can you manage on your own?"

"Are you actually going out into the castle?" Fiona asked, dismayed. "Won't they wonder where a strange healer popped out from?"

"It's in the servants' quarters. They won't question too deeply if I'm able to help." A sudden flare of brightness, and Fiona squinted against the lambent glow that chased the darkness into the far corners of the room. The crystal topping Baltan's staff glimmered white and purple. "Do you want your staff, or shall I light a candle?" the healer asked.

"Hand it to me?" Fiona reached out as Baltan passed her staff over. It took barely a thought, and the silvered ball illuminated. It was such a relief to have her magic back after so many months without. _Though just why it went missing in the first place, I guess I'll never know._ She dimmed the ball a bit, not wanting to disturb Alistair, then rested her staff against the wall at her side.

"It isn't far." Baltan strode to the hallway door. "I'll be able to sense if anyone is coming. Compassion thinks it's more important that we get there."

Fiona chewed her lower lip. "Be careful, Baltan."

He nodded. "I'll not get caught. You'll know if anything happens to me. Send Maric, in that case."

"Where _is_ Maric?" she asked, her brows furrowing. "What time is it?"

"Near as I can tell? Close to midnight. Maric hasn't come back yet. He probably got delayed - don't worry. He'll be back by morning I'm sure, and even if I'm caught, they won't kill me before then." With a reassuring wink, Baltan slipped from the room.

Fiona shook her head at his bad joke, then hunched down in the bed, cradling Alistair a bit closer. Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the Warden sense, pinpointing Baltan's signature as he moved down the hall. It was easy to track him - they were the only two Wardens in the country.

The baby's hand opened and closed against her skin. Fiona sighed, sinking into the warm, drowsy feeling of caring for her son. How could she have ever thought of giving this up?

She dozed a bit as Alistair nursed, keeping half a subliminal eye on Baltan's progress. He'd stopped moving only a few minutes after he started, and Fiona took this to mean he'd arrived at his destination with no trouble. Surely if he'd been captured, he'd have been hauled across the grounds, or she'd have sensed him being dragged downward into the earth. Denerim Castle must have had dungeons.

The steady light from her staff burned on, uninterrupted even as she drifted into semi-consciousness. It was a simple spell, one she'd mastered long ago. Keeping the orb alight was easy as breathing.

Which meant there was no rational explanation when the room was plunged into sudden darkness.

.oOo.

Maric rocked, back and forth, his son curled into his lap, one hand rubbing Cailan's back as the old rocking chair creaked in the silence. A lone candle burned on a nearby table, alongside two mugs of tea sitting forgotten and cold. Cailan's nursemaid had long since gone to bed, after obtaining Maric's oath that he'd fetch her if she was needed for anything.

The boy cuddled closer, his white-blonde hair tickling Maric's chin. "Tell me another story, Da," he whispered.

Maric shifted, moving the youngster to a more comfortable position. "What story do you want?"

"One of my ma." Cailan's eyes shone as he unwrapped his arms from Maric's neck. "Nurse says I look like her. Do I?"

A fond smile upped the corners of Maric's mouth. "You look just like her."

"Nurse says she was beautiful, the most beautiful queen there ever was. She says the whole kingdom loved her."

"She was a lovely woman, Cai. And they did love her. She was very lovable." He smoothed the soft hair from his son's forehead.

The boy snuggled himself in again, contented with this answer. The chair rocked on. _Creak. Creak. Creak. _

In a little corner of the palace, Fiona was hopefully asleep with their baby beside her. A touch of anxiety fluttered through Maric's heart; he'd been hoping to get back to her much earlier. But when he'd gone to kiss Cailan goodnight, as was his custom, the lad had begged to be put to bed by his father.

The matron had protested, but his son threw such a fit that she finally gave in and left the room, leaving a joyous Cailan bouncing off the walls and begging Maric to play.

That had been hours ago. Though he'd been sure it wasn't healthy for Cailan to stay up this late, the delight his son showed at spending time with him had been too real for Maric to ignore. Blocks and toys, then a snack, then songs and stories, and now this quietude. They'd been rocking like this for an awfully long time, and Cailan was finally settling down.

Maric had never had so much fun.

_I'm spending more time with Cailan,_ he vowed to himself. _Being a father isn't about being perfect - just about _being there_. It's too important. Neither he nor Alistair should grow up without me in their lives. Ferelden will just have to understand._

"You loved her, didn't you, Da?"

Blinking, he came out of his musings. Cailan had untangled himself from Maric's arms once more, his blue eyes large and serious. For a seven year old, it looked like hefty thinking.

"Of course I loved her." Maric tweaked the boy's nose.

"Does a king have to have a queen?"

Maric chuckled, puzzled by this line of questioning. "Some kings have queens, some don't."

Cailan chewed on this for a moment. "Nurse says you have to have a queen, and I might get a new ma. She says Ferelden needs a queen. Are you gonna marry someone else?"

Maric's heart twisted, a moment of panic chilling him. "Uh - when did she say that?"

Cailan found the ties on Maric's doublet, childish fingers twirling them as he spoke. "Awhile ago. But if you loved my ma, you won't marry anyone else, right? You can't." He laid his head upon Maric's chest once more. "I don't wanna new ma. You can be a king without a queen. Just you."

Maric's brow furrowed, a sense of dread welling. Cailan's timing couldn't be more apt. "But think of it, Cai. Wouldn't you like someone else to put you to bed at night? Someone to sing to you, and play games? Other than Nurse," he tacked on hastily. "And I can do more of that, too. I want to. And Cai..." He grinned, eager to share this part. "If there was a new queen, you could have a baby brother."

"I don't _wanna_ baby brother," Cailan declared, a note of disgust in his high voice. "Babies are smelly and stinky and noisy and ugly."

Maric burst out laughing. "You were a baby once, you know."

"_I_ know," Cailan scoffed. "But I wasn't like _that_."

"How do you know what babies are like?"

"Myrna is having a baby. Danna told me all about it."

"Myrna?" Maric frowned, trying to recall anyone by that name. One of the servants, perhaps?

"Danna's ma. Danna's always talking about how babies are stinky and smelly and all red and they scream all the time. She doesn't wanna baby, either."

"Who's Danna, Cai?"

"She's a girl. I play with her some afternoons, after lessons. Her, and Thom, and Sigmund, and Anora when she's here..." A yawn widened Cailan's mouth. "Her ma's a cook. She gives us treats sometimes, when we ask."

Maric nodded slowly. Myrna must be one of the servants, and this Danna her daughter. It was good to know that Cailan harbored no false sense of superiority. Children were children, and children should play together. He would commend the matron when he spoke with her next.

Cailan yawned once more, a sleepy sigh escaping him.

_Creak. Creak. Creak._

.oOo.

Fiona's heart stilled, her blood freezing with terror. Barely breathing, she clutched her son to her breast as she struggled to calm her panic. Her first thought was to light her staff once more, but a heavy blanket of magical silence had settled over the room. Similar to when she'd been pregnant, Fiona found herself unable to cast.

She gritted her teeth in frustration, her gaze sliding down to land on her son. "You'd better knock it off," she whispered. "If you're the one doing this, let me tell you - it isn't funny."

He nursed on, oblivious to her scolding.

Fiona sighed, her head tipping back. If she didn't know better, she would think the area had just been Cleansed by a templar.

A jiggling at the doorknob sent her heart leaping into her throat once more.

There was no time to think before the door swung open. Fiona sucked in a frightened breath, one hand groping for her staff. She scrambled to her knees, heart pounding as she balanced her newborn in one arm and the inert weapon in the other. If nothing else, maybe she could get off one good swing.

Slow footsteps sounded at the door, heavy and booted.

"Maric?" she hissed. _Please..._

More footsteps followed. Two armored silhouettes outlined against the light from the hall, followed by a third bearing a lit candle. Fiona cringed as she spotted the Sword of Mercy on the massive breastplates. A string of curse-words blazed through her mind; the room _had _been Cleansed. And whoever would bring templars to visit could have nothing good in mind for her. _How did they find out?__!_

The craggy, serious face of the human bearing the candle was one she'd seen only once before. He'd been unfriendly and imposing the first time, and now as his eyes landed upon her and the child in her arms, he looked angry enough to kill. "Teyrn Loghain," she whispered.


End file.
